House Stalked Cuddy
by yoeman.prince
Summary: Not what you think. Sorry I had to up the rating for the content of the third post. Hope you can still enjoy it. This is not fluff, you've been warned.
1. House Stalked Cuddy

**_House Stalked Cuddy_**

**Disclaimer: _Don't own House M.D. or the characters._**

**_A/N:_** _Hello! I'm the birthday girl, so I get to do whatever I want today. This little diddy popped into my head before I could fall asleep. Following my own advice I typed it up before it could flit away. Enjoy! _

* * *

House stalked Cuddy to her office. He wasn't backing down, not without a fight. Their progress was halted by a small child that ran directly in front of Cuddy's path.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. The light blond curls waving behind her as she dashed forward. Cuddy wanted to stop but her inertia insured her forward motion. She did the only thing she could think to do. Swooping down after the initial collision she collected the small child in her arms.

The young girl giggled with delight at her new height and threw her arms around Cuddy's neck in a warm embrace. She shot her worried father a sunny grin from behind the doctor's shoulder.

His mad-dash halted and worry was replaced with minor embracement and amusement. "Do you have any children Dr. Cuddy?" Her actions were so graceful, surely she did.

House cringed on the inside. He'd poke and prod Cuddy till the end of days, but here there was no pun intended no way for her to just write it off. At least she knew him—he was an ass, she knew to ignore it.

Cuddy's eyes glazed over slightly, she paused; her mouth open slightly. The girl squeezed her tight; "I'm sorry" she mumbled and kissed Cuddy's cheek. It was all Dr. Cuddy could do to shake her head. Slowly, reluctantly she loosened her hold and the child slipped down to the floor and ran to clutch her daddy's hand.

The father shook his head also "Pity," he smiled genuinely not comprehending the significance of her silence, "you're a natural." As they left, the little tike waved to her closing and opening her tiny hand.

He watched her frozen in place for several moments before she entered her office, her sanctuary.

He continued to watch the spot where she had been standing. He heard the doors shut. He faced the glass; saw her alone in the center of the empty office, her head bowed.

Then turned and left.


	2. Pleasure in the Pain

**Part II**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House MD or the characters.

**A/N:** _Thanks for the reviews folks. So I'll continue with a few more drabbles. This one is from Cuddy's POV and I switched to the second person, hope it doesn't bother anyone. It just sounded better that way. The trying bit is about a baby and the other pain is ofcourse the pain in the arse--GregoryHouse._

* * *

Bare and alone you feel hollow standing before your bathtub on the cool tile floor. Your mind has been buzzing all day and now that you're home alone, with no distractions you head is vacant, silent as an empty cave.

Deep within you, you know that this is just the calm before the storm. All your emotions have been smothered, neatly tucked away, so as not to disturb the Dean of Medicine.

Thundering like a waterfall the hot water tumbles into the porcelain. Your skin tingles at the heat of the steam billowing from the water. Without thinking you step quickly into the tub, and almost jump out a few moments later as the heat burns your feet. Mind over matter, you slowly retreat, sitting on the edge and propping your feet up on the other side.

Mind blank, the shock of the not quite boiling water still hasn't brought you to your senses. The scalding water is calming compared to the hurt and turmoil deep in your heart from this afternoon. Mindlessly you let your feet drop once again into the searing water. And it takes less time for the numbing heat to become sharp and stabbing. The pain feels good, but you retract your feet. Over and over again you repeat this ritual: cold hard porcelain; painful scalding water; clean, white, fragile and firm; swirling, fluent, erratic and volatile. This ritual is your life. You are strong, but there's pain: startling and unpredictable. Your weary body yearns for the warmth of the water; your mind understands the impending pain.

Leaning over enveloped in the oppressive steam, the faucets squeaks as you turn the water off. The waterfall slows to a trickle, and the roar of rushing water is dulled to the plop plink of stray droplets. In one movement you lower your body down into the blistering water. Numbness, then pain; your body tingles, alive. Blood courses through your veins, pounding at your temples and racing up to the surface of your skin as every part submerged in the water grows pink, then red.

Breathe in, exhale. Shifting left, water swooshes around your figure. Shift again, your chin now resting on the tops of your hands you sigh. The heat from the water begins to affect you greatly, your heart is racing. The blood and your pounding heart pump emotions from your depths to the surface and you break. Tears flow freely down your face. Saline falls silently into the pool of water around you.

The heat makes you feel alive and real. It awakens your senses and helps you process your pain. So much hurt and ache you know if it could your heart would break. Yet, it remains in your chest, unbelievably whole.

You gasp again, stifling the lingering sobs that threaten to overtake you. One more deep breath and you drop your face into the now tepid water. You open your eyes and slowly let the bubbles issue from your lips. After each one you ponder, what it would mean for that one to be your last, if you just didn't raise your tired head when the air was exhaled. And your thoughts become hazy and a pleasant sleepiness descends upon you.

Your heart aches and you turn onto your back, breathless as the cool air hits your face. The water rushes over you and fills your ears. You can hear wonderful things underwater. The sound is distorted and this has always fascinated you. A small amount of pleasure is stirred in you before the twinge in your chest brings you back.

Aside from these small and rarely noticed moments like the sound of rushing water, pain is the only thing that lets you know you are still alive. Without it you fear you would be as cold and lifeless as the porcelain beneath you. Stiffening your upper lip, to prevent it from quivering with the fresh tears spilling down your cheeks, you decide you must keep trying. Even if failure brings pain; the ache, the loss of not even hoping is somehow worse.

Some days you light the candles and pour scented bubble bath into the tub as you attempt to melt the stress of the day away. Today you soaked in your pain, the squeaky clean of your porcelain skin had become too much. You needed to feel alive. You craved the raw sensation, the honesty of hot water, the pleasure in the pain.


	3. Bitter Water

_**A/N:** It's short. Hope it works. Let me know if you think I got too sentimental at the end there. It just came to me. You can blame my muse. We don't have a close relationship yet, so I can't be held entirely responsible. Thanks for the reviews! They're just like candy, or vicodin-- if you're House._

_PS: Little analogy-- Cuddy shot glass and House vodka. Just to clarify._

Disclaimer: _Don't own, don't sue-- please!?_

* * *

The viscous fluid clung to the frosted glass bottle as House poured another shot.

Whisky, Good Ole Jimmy Dean, was for memories and woodsy scotch for the good times; they both brought a small amount a satisfaction to the damaged diagnostician.

House rarely drank the potent alcohol that burned down his throat. He didn't **enjoy** the bitter liquid currently coursing through his veins. With a sigh he slammed the shot glass on the table for the third time that night.

He was just trying to forget, but each time the empty glass came down it reminded him of the empty look which had haunted her eyes that afternoon.

The glass called to him. _Fill me up._ So he did.

He studied the glass; it almost looked the same with the smooth vodka inside as it had empty, except, he could just detect the meniscus near the rim.

_How ironic. _

House wondered if it would be the same with her. If he filled her up, would he know if she was satisfied? Would it make any difference to her, or would he just cause her more pain. The vodka was so bitter, harsh, abrasive …

... and potent, he thought, draining the glass and then leaning back deep into his leather couch. He closed his eyes as the heady feeling of intoxication swept over him in waves, numbing his sensors, but deceivingly alerting his mind. _She wouldn't make it._ She was fierce, but he knew he was too much. Whatever he could give would do more harm than help. Even if… he could detect… she would still seem hallow. _There wasn't enough of him._ The thought swirled round his mind while he stared down at his leg.

Her face twirled in his head as the vodka kicked in. It flickered bright then dark: her smile, her fury; her laughter, her sorrow. He stirred as the image of her alone in the dim office burdened his mind. She was enclosed in the glass walls, alone.

House reached for the bottle, now nearing the bottom and slightly tepid. He held the glass aloft for a moment in an unspoken toast, silently honoring the one woman who confronted him. With a quick jerk of the head he knocked it back. Looked down at the glass, quietly mourning her defeat and pain. Two things he understood better than anyone should.


End file.
